Windowpane

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

I behold the world from far away,
as through a window; the light of day,
subdued behind a mountain chain,
can scarcely pierce the windowpane.

The milky heavens, drained of gold,
at times send raindrops, fierce and cold;
the wind speaks to the sleeping trees
of distant winter tragedies.

A river of starlings hurries past
on some grand quest; they briefly cast
their fluttering shadows on the ground,
then pass away without a sound.

Night is creeping across the grass,
the world slips further from the glass;
a candle is lit within the room
against the swiftly gathering gloom.

Awaiting Sleep

The lights and colors flutter past
her closed eyelids; the phantoms last
some moments in the darkness after
a stillness falls; then voices, laughter
within the house, yet far away,
ripple upon the edge of grey;
the oaks outside the window grow
a little taller; the moon is low
and shining fair; the sky is deep
above the child awaiting sleep.

Floating

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

Floating out into the ocean sky,
the golden blue, the open eye
beholding all things on the earth,
ascribing to each but little worth.

A great and glittering teardrop there,
suspended in darkness, shining fair,
with the joys and griefs of everyone
falling and falling around the sun.

With blending hues and brittle lights,
with shifting clouds upon the heights,
the furious clamorings of the day
serenely burn, then fade away.

The day is an epoch

Over behind the behemoth high-rise,
a dumpster is heaped, attracting flies;
their jade backs glint under blazing skies
while the sun looks on with complacent eyes.

The day is an epoch; the bright humming city
is a wild and unfathomed depth of infinity,
where great planets sail on the deep churning sea
pushed onward by winds blowing mighty and free.

But the epoch is ending, the long shadows fall;
the slumber of slumbers sends out its soft call;
the sated flies cling to the crust of the wall
and observe the white moon as it shines over all.

A hidden holy light

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

When the voice of the world, with its empty muttering,
grows mute; when in the sunlight I begin shuddering
from a curious fever; when all the things that I love
compel me to be quiet and stare absently above;
not at clouds, or the sun, or the wide void of blue,
but at nothing, yet somehow at everything too;
not thinking one thought, not speaking one word,
with just the silence behind all things being heard;
where peace unassailable, and joy clear and bright,
with love shine forever in a hidden holy light.